


Will that be all?

by stormthedarkcity



Series: Fictober 2018 [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, I'm allowed to say that I'm French, M/M, Orlesians are the worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2020-10-04 07:03:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormthedarkcity/pseuds/stormthedarkcity
Summary: Inquisitor Lavellan officially hates Orlesian balls.





	Will that be all?

Creators know whether that’s a high society or an Orlesian thing, but Iyandrar discovered the evening of the Winter Palace ball that he wouldn’t get peace that easily, not even once the festivities were over. He had been accompanied to his allocated bedroom by a masked servant, who had then proceeded to spend at least an hour making sure the guest of honour was comfortable.

And warm. But not too warm. And that he had all the tea he might want. And wine, did he want wine? What about paper and ink, in case of urgent correspondence? And was he certain the pillows were to his convenience? Question after question after question, when Iyandrar wanted nothing more than to crash and sleep for a good two weeks.

Eventually, the elven servant stood by the door, back stiff in his golden-threaded clothes. “Will that be all, Lord Inquisitor?”

“YES!” Iyandrar shouted, before clearing his throat and continuing in a calmer voice: “I mean, you’ve done more than is necessary, you can, um, take a break. It’s all good.”

Thankfully, the servant got the message this time. He bowed low and left the room in silence, closing the door behind him. Iyandrar sighed in relief, turning to the very appealing bed, when he heard the heavy door swing back open and close again. He felt the will to talk to anyone ever again physically escape his body.

He spun around with a decreasingly-convincing smile, ready to reassure the servant that yes, he was _absolutely certain_ the curtains were to his taste, but–

“Dorian! Thank the Creators it’s you!” He leaned forward, not putting it above the Orlesian court to be listening at his door. “I can’t stand this for a single more second,” he confessed in a murmur.

His boyfriend was wearing the fanciest black clothes Iyandrar had ever seen, a golden scarf thrown carelessly over his shoulder, and a drunken smile. And, of course, he looked gorgeous. He bowed and captured Iyandrar’s hand for a kiss. “Ah! Lord Inquisitor,” he said in a mock Orlesian accent, “you must meet my daughter, she has a comfortable inheritance and a pleasing face!”

Iyandrar grimaced. “You heard that, did you.”

“Inquisitor!” continued Dorian, walking around Iyandrar and making him whirl to follow, “Tell us, what is Andraste’s message to Orlais?”

“Have mercy,” Iyandrar begged.

“Inquisitor…” Dorian wrapped a hand around Iyandrar’s body and pulled him close. He added in a whisper, losing the faked accent: “I heard terrible rumours about your personal relationships…”

Iyandrar matched his tone. “I wouldn’t want to shock you, Monsieur, but I do happen to be dating a very handsome Tevinter mage…”

“Umm?” Dorian said encouragingly.

“…who sneaked into my bedroom even though Josephine strictly forbade it,” Iyandrar finished.

“In my defence, I missed you terribly. What’s a man to do, when his beloved is swarmed by attention that should rightfully be his?”

Iyandrar kissed him. He tasted like expensive wine and those fancy hors d’œuvres they’d been served throughout the evening. Dorian’s hand slid across his chest, his ribs, coming to rest on Iyandrar’s ass and pulling him closer.

Iyandrar broke the kiss. “As much as I’m liking the attention, nothing you say or do right now is going to keep me from spending the next fifteen hours in that bed.”

Dorian pouted. It was ridiculously adorable, something that he’d never do sober, so Iyandrar kissed him again. “C’m’on. Let’s get some rest.”

Dorian sighed deeply and climbed onto the tall bed. “If you insist, Amatus.”

“Trust me, you’ll thank me tomorrow. You should also drink some…” He whirled around, searching. “…water. They. They didn’t give me any water.”

Dorian spread on the smooth bedsheets, lips curling in an amused smile. “Well, you know how to solve that problem.”

“No,” Iyandrar warned.

“You just have to call a servant.”

“Fen’Harel’s ass I will.”

“Amatus…” Dorian crawled to the foot of the bed and perched his chin on his hands, looking up at Iyandrar through smudged inked eyelashes. “You wouldn’t let me get dehydrated, would you? Not to mention the _terrible_ consequences such a treatment would have on my skin!”

Iyandrar’s shoulders fell. He shook his head, but there was a smile on his lips. “You owe me.” He walked to the door, opening it just enough to see down the hallway.

“I’m sure I can think of ways to repay you,” he heard Dorian drawl behind him.

Iyandrar laughed. Oh, the trip back from Halamshiral was looking a lot more fun than the ball itself had been.


End file.
